


Second Chance

by 8-is-great (jemiu)



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Angst, Heartbreak, M/M, aka canon connor, asshole!connor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-25
Updated: 2014-11-25
Packaged: 2018-02-26 23:49:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,676
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2670953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jemiu/pseuds/8-is-great
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver gives Connor a second chance, and it ends up being a horrible mistake.</p>
<p>From Tumblr prompt (sorta):<br/>Angst prompt. Connor and Aiden have some history together. Oliver feels like he has nothing</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently I hate myself because I wrote this depressing af fic?? Crying forever. More Oliver POV fics needed tho because Oliver is life. Also, I accept prompts and feedback and friends on my tumblr [jemiu](http://jemiu.tumblr.com/)!

The first time Oliver noticed something off about Connor’s attitude toward Aiden was the day Connor met Michaela. Sure, if Oliver really thought about it, he could vaguely remember instances of Connor griping about his coworker’s fiance, but it hadn’t occurred to Oliver to log those moments—he hadn’t grown bitter and wounded by Connor’s emotional distance yet. He hadn’t been on guard, waiting for Connor’s next affair.

The day he met Michaela was the day he had agreed to give Connor another chance, to mend what had become broken.

“So you’re Hacker Boy?” she asked. She was wearing a crimson blouse buttoned all the way to her neck and a tan pencil skirt. The look suited her, Oliver thought.

“Oh, uh—I guess!” Oliver got the sense that the nickname had been around for some time, and he felt a strange sense of pride. Perhaps it meant he had been in enough conversations among Connor’s coworkers to actually warrant a nickname. Maybe even Connor talked about him. He wondered if Connor called him “Hacker Boy” and felt a few butterflies flutter in his belly.

“Well, I can see you deserve better than Connor,” she said, steely-eyed.

Oliver laughed uneasily.

“Just ignore her,” Connor said, pulling on Oliver’s arm. “She’s been bumped in the brain ever since she found out her fiance bats for our team.”

Before Oliver could reply, Michaela and Connor we spewing vitriol at each other, and Connor only stopped once Oliver had stormed out of the Keating office.

“Hey, wait! Oliver!” Connor grabbed Oliver’s shoulder. “What’s the matter?”

“What’s the _matter_? You, in there, fighting with some woman about her fiance because—because what? You had sex with him in _high school_?”

“No, it’s not like that, it’s just—Michaela is irritating, okay? You don’t know her like I do.”

“What does Michaela even have to do with it? All you kept talking about was Aiden, Aiden, Aiden!”

Connor raised his eyebrows and gave a toothy grin. “You’re jealous,” he said smugly.

Oliver felt his face turn hot, but he stood his ground. “Please, Connor, don’t deflect. You just—you just cared too much! About Aiden!”

Connor rolled his eyes. “I just wanted to piss of Michaela. Relax.”

Oliver had let Connor talk him down that day. He had wanted to believe in Connor, he had wanted Connor’s affections to solely lie with him—so much so that he let his short-sighted delusions of a deep romance with Connor take hold. But now Oliver regretted it, curled in a ball on his bed. He should have known—rather, he should have let himself accept the truth. He was a damn fool, and he found out just how much of one the night of Aiden Walker’s bachelor party.

There had been many signs—strange biting remarks about Michaela’s wedding out-of-the-blue, uncomfortable amounts of reminiscing on Facebook as the wedding drew nearer, high school yearbooks strewn about Connor’s coffee table—but Oliver had aggressively suppressed his fears. _Connor is with me_ , he had thought over and over. _Connor begged for me back. Connor would not screw this up again._

Oliver was a damn fool.

He had felt a rush of confidence when Connor had given him a key to his apartment, he had felt a rush of intimacy when Connor had asked him to meet him after the bachelor party.

“Come by at, like, 3 A.M.!” Connor said.

“That’s way too early! Or late. Whatever. I’ll be asleep!”

“Come on, Ollie, I’ll be drunk. You can do whatever you want to me,” Connor said, wiggling his hips. Oliver’s willpower went out the window when he heard the pet name, and while he had no intention of taking advantage of a blackout drunk Connor (would Connor even be able to get it up?), this strange new privilege of entering Connor’s apartment at any hour was too exciting to shelf.

And he had done it. He had stupidly, stupidly, so fucking _stupidly_ entered Connor’s apartment at 3 A.M.—2:43 A.M. to be exact. Maybe if Oliver had waited 17 minutes, he would not have walked into the end of his relationship. If he had just waited 17 minutes, he would not be sobbing uncontrollably into a soaked pillow, his neck sore from hours of wailing and his body shaking from the cold because Oliver could not summon the strength to crawl under his bed covers.

But he had not waited 17 minutes.

He bit his pillow, grinding his teeth together so hard it hurt, as the memory of the night before replayed again. He could not stop it.

 

\-------

 

An all-consuming thrill washed over Oliver as he turned the key in the doorknob. He was entering his boyfriend’s apartment in the middle of the night—probably just to clean up his vomit and put him to sleep, but Oliver grinned excitedly anyway. His heart was racing so fast it was as if it was in competition for Oliver’s attention with the swarm of butterflies in his stomach.

As he stepped through the threshold, he heard a strange grunting sound. He dashed forward, thoughts of Connor injured on the floor flashing through his mind. What he ran into, however, was much more gut-wrenching.

At first, Oliver couldn’t process what was happening. Something about the scene felt fake, like it had been staged, and the men on the couch were posing for a porn mag. But the grunting and slapping of skin eventually pierced through Oliver’s shocked haze, and the reality of the scene registered with a sharp cut to Oliver’s heart.

Aiden was propped up on the couch, groaning in rhythm with each of Connor’s hard thrusts. Connor’s head was tilted back, and his hair and chest were wet with sweat. He let out a moan, and Oliver snapped.

“HONEY, I’M HOME!” Oliver had not meant to sound so manic—he had wanted to go for a creepy calm—but the wound in his heart was pouring out something vile, something dark, and it was taking over Oliver’s mind.

Connor pulled away from Aiden, his wet, hard dick bobbing comicly as he frantically grabbed his pants and pulled them on. Aiden collapsed flat against the couch, pulling a throw over his bare ass.

“Oliver, Oliver—I, I, you—what are you doing here?” Connor was breathing heavy.

“Getting home late from a night out with the girls. Shall I get dinner started?” There it was, the creepy calm.

“What are you—what?” Connor’s eyes darted the room as he approached Oliver.

“I was thinking chicken, were you thinking chicken?” Oliver stepped toward the kitchen.

Connor furrowed his brow and grabbed Oliver’s wrists. “Oliver, hey—”

“CHICKEN IT IS!” Oliver shouted in Connor’s face, trying to twist his arms free of Connor’s grip.

But Connor held on, giving Oliver a look of desperation.

“Oliver, Oliver, listen to me—listen to me,” Connor said.

Oliver tried lifting his hands to cover his ears, but Connor held them down, so Oliver shook his head violently.

“NO, CONNOR!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry! Listen to me! I’m sorry!”

“THIS HOW THEY DO BACHELOR PARTIES IN NEW YORK?” Oliver’s voice cracked as he shouted over Connor’s shoulder to Aiden.

Aiden looked up, eyes wide. “Bachelor party? What—I don’t?”

And then it hit Oliver: Connor had lied—about everything. Tears welled in his eyes as he turned to face Connor. Connor’s eyes were closed, appearing stricken, and Oliver hoped it was because he realized there was no way out of this.

“There was no bachelor party, was there?” Oliver asked calmly, tears rolling down his cheeks.

Connor shook his head and let go of Oliver’s wrists. Oliver immediately wiped away his tears with his palms.

“Ollie, I’m sorry—”

“DON’T—” The muscles in Oliver’s chest tightened and he scrunched his shoulders. “—call me that.”

“Okay, okay! Oliver, I’m sorry!”

“Why did you tell me to come here? Why did you want me to see this?” Oliver could not comprehend how someone could be such a monster.

“I didn’t—” Connor’s face shifted as if remember something. “Oh, God, Oliver. I didn’t think you’d actually—it was a joke—”

The words stung deep in Oliver’s lungs. “The real joke is that I trusted you,” Oliver spat out, flaring his nose.

“Oliver, please—you have to understand, Aiden and I—we have history—but it doesn’t mean anything anymore—I realized that tonight—I didn’t have fun—I made a mistake—please—”

Just the sound of Connor’s voice was daggers in the chest. It grated on Oliver’s soul, sending him rushing for the door.

“Wait, please—I’M SORRY!” Connor grabbed the hem of Oliver’s shirt. “This was a mistake! Give me a second chance!”

A sudden rage burned hot in Oliver, boiling his blood and smothering him.

“THIS WAS YOUR SECOND CHANCE!”  He shoved Connor to the floor and threw his key against Connor’s chest before slamming the door as hard as he could possibly manage. He choked out a fractured scream at the door, humiliated and heartbroken.

He held back his tears until he entered his apartment, and then he crumpled against the door, his whole body wracking with his sobs.

 

\--------

 

In bed, the chill was finally getting to him. He had no idea how long he had laid still on the bed. He slowly sat up, snot and tears still coating his face. He pushed his legs under the covers one at a time, the movements requiring great effort.

He cried quietly for awhile, his throat too raw to allow for the bitter wailing his heart needed. The silence was only broken by the occasional ding of a notification on his phone. Eventually, he grabbed his phone to check the time.

17 missed calls from Connor Walsh.

17 text messages from Connor Walsh.

Oliver shouted, his throat rasping and burning, as he threw the phone against the wall. He shoved his hands over his eyes and screamed louder, wanting the pain in his throat to last forever. A different kind of pain did.

 


End file.
